Free Verse # 295 (I will love her)

Her skin is not a surface
but an atmosphere, an ether
where his visions unfold
weaving his heart
wider than the sky,
where his desires rush
like poems in endless waves
lapping her body
and birthing her
from his flesh, his soul.


At her touch
a fool again,
a poet-clown painting
rainbows in the sky.


I will love her
like a mad poet loves
to the ashen end and beyond
where the poem again rises,
a phoenix from the ash,
a full moon from night’s flesh,
a heart beating
beyond the point of death


New moon,
in your shadow I rise again,
a fountain spilling poetry,
a balm of myrrh and jasmine
fit only for her skin.


Reading her lips,
this poem’s balm
along their curves melting,
inflaming a want
parched yet oozing,
burst open like a red fig.


In his lap
her naked body,
the artistry of a union
rolling like a river,
a wild current frothing
an eloquence of breaths
rhyming with the stars.


Trail of leaves…
each a star
burning in her dreams


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